


if the sea has any draw for you

by weird_bird (2weird4)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: BDSM, Developing Relationship, F/F, Older Woman/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 03:26:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11637963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2weird4/pseuds/weird_bird
Summary: The first time Mila saw her dance in person, her power funneled down into elegance, the granite of her face transmogrified to marble, she almost gave her the password to her bank account, she’s that good.





	if the sea has any draw for you

**Author's Note:**

> warning for allusion to sexual assault and also uh, general creepiness maybe? this is already some creepy crack, and i may have made it creepier.
> 
> title from ["i don't know"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aPiMXGrE6_c) by lisa hannigan.

“Did you lose count?” Lilia has no proof Mila has not done it deliberately. Cupping the round of her backside, she spanks her again, imprinting milky flesh in rose.

Mila’s back muscles tense under the blue lace of her bra. “Yes,” she breathes. When she turns her face, her eyes are wily as they are wide. “Are you going to start over?”

Lilia’s palm smacks into her ripe cheek again, forcing a gasp out of the girl lying across her lap. Her other hand sweeps away the rich hair fallen in her face so that she can scrutinize her expression, suspicious.

“I’ll be good.” Turning her head, Mila presses gloss-sticky lips to Lilia’s knuckles. “I won’t lose count this time.”

With scorpion-sharp nails, Lilia pinches her ass. Bending low over her, she whispers over Mila’s whimper, “Neither will I.”

 

“Hold that posture.” Lilia’s hand wraps around her calf and straightens it, and Mila gathers lungfuls of air through the strain and stretch. Ouch, ouch. Bad ouch? Good ouch? The high-intensity public torture that is ice-skating has scrambled her for good.

If asked, Mila couldn’t say the first time she was aware of Lilia Baranovskaya’s existence. For the entirety of her skating career--so every year of Mila’s life that has mattered--she has been present. Not a star to orbit around, not even a constant, but a recurring feature. One of the clear early memories she has of her is when she mentioned her coach’s wife and her aunt, a ballet aficionado, gasped, _“That_ Lilia?” 

_“Hold it.”_

Pointe shoes sweat-drenched, Mila _holds._

Yes, that Lilia. The wife of her coach, the choreographer of her colleague. 

“Hm. You’ll have to do it again tomorrow. But it wasn’t as disastrous as your previous attempts.”

That Lilia. Possibly the scariest woman Mila has ever met. And Mila comes from a _long_ line of bad bitches. Both feet back on the ground, Mila bends in half over the barre and groans. Ice princess whom? 

Where Yakov might ruffle her hair, Lilia offers what might be an easing of the tightness at the corners of her mouth. “Control, Mila.”

“I am,” Mila says, attempting to drown herself in her water bottle, “ _working_ on it.” Bouncing back on the balls of her feet, she stretches her arms behind her head. “Can it be Yurka’s turn now?”

Yuri peeks around the wall, scowling when she hasn’t even had a chance to flatten him under her rolling pin yet. 

As soon as she’s in optimal position, Mila squirts Yuri in the face through the strategic hole she’s made in the cap of her water bottle. _Better you than me,_ her smug face says as she saunters out of the studio.

 

“Show me _joy_ through your skate,” Lilia reminds Yuri through her teeth as she watches him twist and kick through his step sequence with a screwed-up face, _again._ “Come here.”

Yuri skates towards her in short, irritated strokes, but before he can reach the boards, Mila skates sideways towards him and knuckles his head. 

“You look constipated,” she laughs in his ear. She pushes up his cheeks.

Crossing her arms, Lilia raises her eyebrows severely. 

“Get off me, Baba!” Yuri wrestles with her, but Mila, proving stronger, hooks her thumbs in the corners of his mouth and _yanks._ “She’s mutilating me!” Yuri yells.

“If you can’t even smile through your step sequence, Leroy will beat you for sure!” Dropping her arms around Yuri, she tickles him. Yuri yelps and squirms, but he can’t help but giggle.

The interaction reminds Lilia so much of her own cousins and siblings that she can’t bring herself to stop the interruption of practice. 

Finally disentangled, Yuri skates towards Lilia again, movements loopy with laughter.

Lilia holds up a hand, and Yuri skates to a stop, one foot poking behind the other. “Do your step sequence again.”

Eyebrows raised, Yuri skates long strokes backwards, then a few paces forward before he gathers the speed to slide into his step sequence again. This time his movements loosen, limbs flowing from one movement into another, and his face stays sunny.

“Tickle training,” Mila tells her in the locker room after practice. When she lifts her dripping red hair to wrap a towel around it, she reveals the smoothly shaved undercut underneath. “I should patent it.”

Mila is a pretty girl and a proficient skater. Unremarkable, initially, to Lilia.

“It was effective.” Lilia looks back into the tiny mirror where she touches up her makeup. “Nice to see that Yuri has friends among his rink-mates.”

“We all love him,” Mila reassures her. She shrugs. “We remember what sixteen is like. We just can’t let him get so caught up in it.”

Sixteen was not so long ago for Mila as she makes it seem. Sometimes that’s easy to remember, with her sparkly pink lip-gloss, pastel phone charms, playful mannerisms. With her ability, determination, and independence, it’s also easy to forget. Like almost every young person Lilia has worked with since childhood, Mila never experienced enough childhood to be a happy child _or_ a fully-realized adult.

“What about you?” Mila asks when Lilia slides the compact back into her purse. “Was it like that with the dancers you grew up with?”

Was it like that. It was like a lot of things. Cutthroat. Talent painted a target on one’s back. Lonely. It wasn’t a life that facilitated relationships with those outside of their world. Heady. Sometimes heady. When after a heart-pounding performance a girl would slip her hand into Lilia’s tights, and Lilia would bite the red off her mouth. 

Aloud, Lilia admits, “We didn’t look out for one another.”

“Oh.” Mila pauses in zipping her jacket, and her brows draw together unhappily. “I’m sorry.”

There’s nothing to be sorry for, in Lilia’s eyes. It was what it was, and she could not imagine it being anything but what it was. Opening the door for her, Lilia looks back at her. “How are you getting back to your apartment?” Mila’s car, if she recalls correctly, is at the mechanic.

“Um--” Mila tips her head, indicating the rink behind them. “Vitya said he would give me a ride home.”

“Nonsense. They’ll be hours yet.” Yuuri liked to skate best when the rink was deserted of all but his fiance. “I’ll drive you home.”

“You don’t have to--” Mila begins, then thinks better of it. “Thank you.” Dutifully, she falls into line behind Lilia as they walk out to her car.

Inside the warm, Lilia wraps her hands around the steering wheel. “For what it’s worth,” she says, looking in the rear-view mirror as she backs up, “I might have been grateful to have a friend like you.”

Mila responds with a bright little sound. “Maybe even shown your gratitude better than Yurka.”

 

“This is a significant departure from your meal plan,” Lilia tells her even as she inputs the address of the new ice cream place into her GPS.

“I want you to try it.”. She stares at Lilia’s profile illuminated by the phone. In like, a severe old lady kind of sense, she’s really--she’s something. “My treat.”

“Treat,” Lilia repeats. Sour-mouthed, she affixes the GPS to the glass again and drops her long fingers to the steering wheel. They’re gloved. It’s not cold. There’s no need for them. No need for Mila to stare at them, either.

“Like, I’ll pay for it,” Mila says stupidly. “But we better hurry before the place closes.” 

They hurry. The place isn’t closed. But only ten minutes until it is. Mila’s stupid vision of stately Lilia sitting at a sticky counter and delicately spooning up strawberry shatters. 

“Hm.” Lilia checks the subtly lavish watch around her wrist despite the car’s clock being right there. 

Mila bites her lower lip. “I can run in and get some. What flavor do you want?”

Lilia looks at her like champagne gelato flecked with gold and drizzled with mermaid tears could never satisfy her. “Surprise me.” The amount of aloofness she can flatten into those two words is honestly everything Mila aspires to in oh, four decades or so.

Mila runs in and gets the ice cream. No essence of mythological sea beings, no precious metal, but she really did like the strawberry here. Sliding into the car, she passes her the cup of ice cream with its little spoon. The _thought_ made her week, but she would never in her life to the prima ballerina once and forever, the woman who could tame both Yakov and Yuri and save room for dessert, extend a _cone._

Taking the cup with her little finger extended, somehow not making that look absurd, Lilia scoops out a mouse-sized mouthful.

Eyes on her, Mila swings a leg up onto the dash.

With the ice cream a centimeter from her lips, Lilia stops.

“What,” Mila starts with a squirm of her hips, a tap of her foot, “a lady shouldn’t sit like this?”

“A lady,” Lilia says, “may strain her hamstring without good reason.”

Good reason would be screwing up a leg extension or something, probably. Something on the ice or on the barre, a whole martyrdom deal, that kind of good reason. Mila doesn’t experience this thing called _reason_ as often as average. “If you’re not going to eat that, I’ll take it.”

Lilia draws the sweet dollop off the spoon and into her mouth. Then she reaches over and bats Mila’s foot.

Outside of what’s absolutely necessary for ballet practice, Lilia doesn’t really touch her. Mila is totally going to pretend that this wasn’t the aim all along. Rolling her ankle, she doesn’t let herself be moved.

Lilia’s hand wraps around her ankle in its polka-dot sock and bends her leg back against her chest. Her muscles bunch under the force. Good ouch. Mila’s knee presses into her breast. Lilia’s hand all but touches her breast. 

Instead, in a show of propriety that runs so deep it’s not a show, Lilia returns the hand to the safe harbor of her lap. The other holds the ice cream cup still, all with an air that she does all of this all the time.

Dropping her legs down, Mila straightens up her back. Almost perfect posture, if she wasn’t sitting next to the first woman to dance with steel fused with her entire nervous system, bionic ballerina. “So.”

Wordlessly, Lilia passes her the cup, then starts the car.

Mila stares down at the already-gooey-melted strawberry ice cream in the cup. She stabs up a scoop with the little spoon. “I didn’t bring a second spoon,” she tells Lilia. Poor justification, and she might be beyond justification at this point. She ladles up a generous mouthful and pulls her lips along the plastic where under the chilly fullness, she might taste something body-bitter and warm.

 

“Thanks. I’ll wash it and give it back to you tomorrow.” Mila gives her a radiant pink smile and tugs off her too-short shirt in favor of tugging on the too-loose one Lilia gives her. Torso naked but for a sports bra, the instigation behind her change of shirt is even more obvious. Hips, hand-printed in purple. Sensing Lilia’s regard, her big blue eyes flick to her face, then away. 

Lilia’s hand curls around the strap of her purse, manicured nails jabbing into her palm. “Tell me his name.” 

Studiously, Mila pushes her hair back from her face and pulls her skates out of her bag. Her movements do not seem impaired. Even in this, it seems she has been just responsible enough. What lives they lead. “I’m not seeing him again.”

The blind eyes Lilia has suffered beneath have turned hers keener when watching her flock. “Did he hurt you, Mila.” She has ruined lives for less. 

Straightening, Mila says, “He didn’t do anything I didn’t want to.”

Ah. Caught in the oily shadow of the first possibility, Lilia has missed the second. Her lips fold together. She’s not embarrassed. It was a safe mistake to make. This, this is where they drift into danger. “It was too much, then?” she asks, academically arch.

Mila looks at her askance. Her mouth looks pinker than usual today, like teeth have been at it. “It wasn’t enough.”

 

“The end of an era,” Lilia says with this _solemnity_ that--she’s trying to be _funny._ God.

Mila’s fists rest on her hips. “It’s been two weeks.”

“How long does something have to last for it to qualify as an era?” Picking up the long bag, Lilia pulls out the bottle to see the label. “This to me says _era.”_

“You rejected my ice cream, so…” She adjusts her hands, but she doesn’t drop them from her hips, elbows serving as swing-out shields.

“This isn’t an equivalent vintage.” Come on. Tons of men--and women, also women--must have plied Lilia with gifts. The first time Mila saw her dance in person, her power funneled down into elegance, the granite of her face transmogrified to marble, she almost gave her the password to her bank account, she’s that good.

“Just take the wine.” Mila tucks her hair behind her ear and bites the inside of her cheek rather than her lip. She made Lilia drop by her apartment, this last time she’s giving her a ride before she takes her to the mechanic to finally pick up her car. The repairs stretched to a week, and then practice kept running so late that the shop closed by the time they could head there. The universe works out all kinds of cool conveniences like that. “Well, since you’re here, do you want the tour?”

Lilia sets down the bottle before deliberately swiveling her head around. “Will that also take an era?”

“Maybe a small one.” Mila’s one-bedroom apartment is _well_ within her means, rattier than it needs to be, but she likes to splurge on other things. 

Past her decently-equipped kitchen and living room perfect for lazing, she shows Lilia her bathroom with the bars of petaled soap and lacy shower curtains, plus the powder blue of her bedroom walls. She’s very proud of the desk she won in a silent auction, though she likes auctions where she can yell numbers wildly better than ones where she has to scratch down numbers on her clipboard. On top of that desk is her real, actual pride and joy. 

“Hi, nugget. Come say hi.”

Lilia stares, and Mila’s pet ferret stares back with her pretty little eyes.

“I would like to introduce to you, the prima ballerina of Russia, the prima ballerina of my apartment, Night Witch.”

A high-velocity snort escapes Lilia’s nostrils. “You let Yura name your rodent?”

“Yurka does not have the market cornered,” Mila says, scandalized. “I name my own mustelids. Isn’t that right, angel-butt.”

Night Witch snuffles her way over to her litter box, and Lilia crosses her arms over her chest. 

Mila crosses her arms over her chest, too. “You don’t have pets?” 

“I do.” Lilia glances at her watch, and her heels pinprick the carpet as she leads the way towards the door. “I have a saltwater tank. Thank you for the wine.”

Saltwater tank. Makes sense, doesn’t it, that Lilia would like something with so many variables when she could control all of them.

 

When interviewed, Mila is impeccable. She has a new sponsor. Confidence tilts her chin, and charm shimmers off her skin as she answers their questions, laughing and parrying back, never too far, always in line.

To Lilia, who has come to know her propensity for blogging about women’s history and penchant for irresponsible online shopping, this incarnation of Mila seems extraterrestrial.

She knows the public-private dichotomy. She knows that everyone she cares for is made up of many different people collapsed into one. Vitya, Zhora. Her Yasha, her Yura. She even knew this of Mila.

Somehow, she still feels settled back onto course when Mila leans against her kitchen counter and awkwardly wipes her clammy hands on a dishtowel. She’s shaking, a little. 

“You did what was expected of you,” Lilia says briskly. In brief, she pats her shoulder. She’s smaller and stronger than she expects at once.

“I know it went fine.” Mila twirls a styled wave around her finger. A practiced gesture--her hands stop shaking. 

After the interview, Viktor and Yuuri peeled off to a restaurant to celebrate, Yuri in tow, and Georgi disappeared, maybe to drink. Lilia told Yakov she would not need to carpool back without telling him that she was going home with Mila.

“A drink seems in order,” Lilia suggests after a moment.

Mila eyes Lilia’s large purse with some interest. “You didn’t smuggle anything out of there, did you?” she asks, gleeful rather than hopeful.

“A lady does not,” Lila says, fixing her with narrowed eyes, “ _smuggle.”_ Opening her purse, she pulls out a small bottle of her favorite liquor. “I brought my own from home.”

Delighted, Mila immediately goes for her cupboard.. “Hm--I only have some wine-glasses.” She leans farther forward. “I only have _two_ wine-glasses.”

Lilia sighs. _Young people._ She should ask why she must be minimalist in this aspect when she is in no other. “Very well.”

Liquor bottle in one hand, wine-glass in another, Mila turns. But her palms must still be clammy. A squeak of skin on glass, and she drops both. 

The liquor bottle rolls break-neck across the counter. Weapon-bodied woman that she is, Lilia catches it by the neck before it can crash off the counter. 

The wine-glass proves more unfortunate. It shatters into glitter.

“Ah.” Mila’s hand covers her mouth. “Stay there. I’ll take care of it.”

Noting how flustered she is, Lilia remains seated, only lifting one stiletto off the glass-crunchy ground. 

After she fishes a dustpan out from under the kitchen sink, Mila drops to her haunches. The structured material of her dress rides up her thighs.

When Lilia glimpses her panties, she looks up at the ceiling. The light-bulb could use replacement, she thinks. Cotton, her brain tells her. Lavender cotton.

With careful motions, head bowed, Mila sweeps up every last shard. Knees on the tile, she looks up at Lilia. “I’m sorry, I was _really_ clumsy, that was really--” 

“You needed a new set of wine-glasses, regardless. Two is not a set.” Lilia looks down at her, with her smooth, soft face, her fetching fingers just under her heel. “I have a spare.”

Fatally, Mila bites her lip.

She kept telling herself that there was nothing untoward in taking an interest in a student, a young woman who was one of the world’s best skaters but struggled in ballet. Mila needed Lilia. She told herself there was nothing to hide while she repeatedly failed to broach the topic of her burgeoning friendship with Mila with Yakov, her Yasha with whom she discusses everything from her ovarian cysts to his falling-out with his favorite cousin. Mila liked Lilia. There was no harm in it.

Lilia has heard of the hockey players, one and two, and the bartender. In the stories of her escapades, Mila has never mentioned even a drunken kiss with a girl. 

When Lilia unbuttons her blazer and the shirt underneath, Mila lowers her mouth to her breast without hesitation, and when Lilia brings Mila’s fine-boned hand to her heat, Mila is the one to moan first.

Mila grinds on Lilia’s lifted knee under her pencil skirt. Comes on her hand. Afterwards, they sip liquor out of the single wine-glass left, stamping overlapping pink gloss and waxy red on the rim. Then the buzz sizzles into kissing, and Lilia dances Mila backwards into her blue bedroom to have her all over again.

Four fingers wet to the knuckle inside her, Lilia remembers her words in the locker room: _It wasn’t enough._

 

“That professionals such as figure skaters and ballet dancers--”

 _”Ah,_ oh Christ.”

“--should be predisposed towards sadomasochism should come as no surprise.”

“I kind of hate that you can talk like this when we’re fucking.” Mila gasps as she works the small vibrator around her clit. The night before, Lilia called and told her to pack it, sterile and secret, into her bag of skating gear so that she could bring it with her to Lilia’s apartment the next day, and Mila went to bed wet. Now Lilia watching her use her favorite toy on herself makes her tremble, hot all over. 

“Fucking?” For just the sound of the word in Lilia’s crisp tone, Mila gasps again. “Is that what we’re doing?”

“Well, let’s see.” Mila’s hips spring up against the frantic pressure. Her pleasure comes in faster and faster spurts. Almost there. She needs it so much, so much more than when she does this exact same thing without Lilia’s gaze on her. She doesn’t get it, but when it gets her off this hard, she doesn’t _need_ to get it. “I’m about to come, and you look turned-on. Seems like fucking to me.”

Lilia draws one nail up the inside of her thigh, then rubs down her folds with the pad of her finger. Her knuckle pushes at her hole, teasing the nerve-endings around it, but she does not penetrate her. Just as Mila starts to fuck up against her hand, Lilia pinches the vibrator out of her grasp. “I wasn’t finished.”

“Hey!” Cruelly close to the edge, Mila can only pant for a moment before she pushes up on her elbows. “Can’t you lecture me later?” 

Lilia’s lips sear up the side of her neck. “It’s relevant. Pay attention.”

“Like I have any other choice.” A week and a half since they had sex in Mila’s kitchen, almost an era, and Mila’s about ready to trust anything Lilia chooses, if she can just _come._ Mila’s been known to throw a man down and pleasure herself on him like he’s a toy with an attitude problem, but here, she lets Lilia lead. 

Because it makes her come. It always makes her come. Being talked to like this, with a crazy-making condescension that’s maybe not entirely unearned with how _very well_ Lilia knows what she’s doing, even that gets her there.

“Do you want to have a choice?” Lilia’s expression stays even. “You can always say no.”

Mila’s pussy throbs. All she wants to do is reach down and rub herself over the edge. “I’m saying yes.” She shifts, nipples tingling in the cold air. “Keep talking.”

“Professionals,” Lilia begins again, “like ourselves, our greatest skill is not our _jeté_ or our Ina Bauer. It is our control. Control over the body. Control over the mind.”

Mila’s breathing hard, looking up at her. Control. Yeah, yeah, she can get into that. She’s running come between her thighs. _Control._

“Taking control or giving it up, it almost does not make a difference. Both are a surrender to sexuality. Both can be...pleasurable.”

“Christ, Lilya,” Mila mumbles. Hooking an arm around her neck, she pulls a kiss off her lips. “Whatever you want to do, I’m down. I mean--I want it.”

Lilia’s eyes dapple black. With bullet-point emphasis, she tells her, “You can tell me to stop at anytime. It doesn’t matter how far we are, how much you wanted it when we began, or how much you think I want it. I will stop.”

“I’m not as breakable as you think I am,” Mila tells her, raising her eyebrows, because really, some of the share of the incredulity around here has to be hers, “though I have this feeling you’re going to try to break me.” She nods once. “I’ll tell you to stop. And you’ll stop.”

Which is how she finds herself gripping the back of this really nice (maybe antique, she’ll have to ask later?) chair, with some pretty intricate curlicues. She turns her head to the side, inspecting a carving of a flower, when Lilia’s light slap at her thigh jerks her back to attention. “So what’s my surprise?” Admittedly, Mila’s more comfortable on her home turf, but Lilia’s flat is full of fun things.

“Here, Milochka.” 

Arching her back, shivering a little at the childish diminutive (shouldn’t be sexy, _is_ sexy,) she lets Lilia reach around her and--oh. Smooth leather, stiff boning. Shit, a corset. 

Fingertips brush her breasts and then down her back, making Mila arch again. “I’m going to lace you up, mm?” Lilia’s curvy, covered-in-lace hips set up hard against her ass.

Mila’s fingers curl around the wooden rim of the chair, and she’s thinking of how chipped the paint on her nails is, and then she’s not thinking of anything at all. Inch by inch, incremental, the corset pulls around her body. Pulls tighter. “Oh, oh, it’s--it’s tight.” She gasps and throws her head back onto Lilia’s shoulder. Mila can’t help but spread her thighs, desperate for any little hint of friction. Though the space between stimulation has brought her down from the brink of climax, her arousal’s still boiling over. 

“That’s my girl.” Lilia cups her throat with a long-nailed hand, turning her head to kiss her neck again. She must leave smears of her lipstick there. She’s learning just how much Mila likes that.

No pressure on her throat, just _possession._ With the faith she puts in Lilia to take a handle on her athleticism, how well she knows the physics of Mila’s muscle, it’s easy to put her body into her hands, too. A drop of slick hits the wooden chair as the corset locks around her chest. Mila moans. “Can I see?”

“You want to see yourself?” Lilia’s nails tease her nipples from where her breasts are cupped high by the corset. No surprise that she knows Mila’s size, but where the hell did she get a corset that fits so well, so fast? “You are a pretty girl.” 

Every breath pushes out against the structure of the corset, and it forces her back straight better than Lilia’s ever managed with her shouting in the studio. Lilia must love that. “I want to see how pretty I am for you.” Mila’s voice sounds embarrassingly small. 

Lilia--doesn’t seem to mind. Holding Mila’s waist, she flips the chair around so that the front faces the mirror. Then, hands on Mila’s shoulders, she pushes her down to sit.

Chest rising and falling as best as it can in her excitement, Mila boggles at her reflection. Patchy-pink face, the corset constricting her _just_ right. Lilia’s nails have left little marks on her thighs and the bit of softness on her stomach. Between her thighs, where she’s bare, she can see...she can see that she’s wet, so wet for all of this, being put on display like some perverse doll. 

“We wouldn’t do all we do if we didn’t like to be watched,” Lilia tells her, but Mila squeezes her eyes shut anyway. “What, you don’t like to look?” A thumb at her cheek and the brief press of lips to her temple. “Do you want to come?”

If Mila could grab the edges of the chair, she could grind herself into an orgasm, easy. But she sits still, probably slicking up this crazy-expensive wood. Decadent, dirty. Like everything with Lilia is turning out to be. “Yes, please, Lilya.”

“Why don’t you keep your eyes closed, then, and sit still for me.” There’s this whispering sound Mila can’t place. Lilia manipulates Mila’s willing calves along the legs of the chair. 

All right, she’s following--bindings, so silky against her skin. Nothing Mila couldn’t kick loose. She still feels powerless to move. “Is this how you want me?”

A contemplative sound, like Lilia is choreographing all of this. “Hands behind your back.”

Mila folds her arms around the back of the chair. Her eyes still scrunch closed.

“There we are, Milochka.” Lilia’s deft hands tying her wrists just a little more tightly than her ankles, and then a blind kiss where Mila parts her lips and lets Lilia take whatever she wants. “Ideal posture. If only I could make you dance like this. It might improve your form.”

Wow, she doesn’t want to get her wires crossed, but that’s a thought. “I could dance my feet off if you let me up.” It’s idle, of course. She loves being bound like this.

Something smooth but solid presses between her thighs, and Mila’s eyes snap open. “Yes, you can look if you like,” Lilia chastises.

Vibrating dildo, bigger and with more settings than Mila’s, one she’s seen before and debated buying, then talked herself out of only because it was a purchase she couldn’t discuss with Georgi until his doubt propelled her into rebelling and putting it in her cart. “Lilya!” If Lilia had bought it for her, she would have the pink and not the black. Still amazing. “Please turn it on?”

A little unexpectedly, Lilia does. She massages it up and down her folds, low setting, but her pleasure rises up fast again, bubbling inside her. “Shall I fill you up?”

Before Mila can even nod twice to the mirror, Lilia plunges the toy inside, a slick slide.

Her elegant wrist flicks, watch catching the light, as Lilia fucks her.

Mila’s pussy parts so damn easy. Takes the toy deep. “Fuck me, fuck me harder, Lilia, please--” The vibrations judder up her hips and spine, and she’s there, she’s right there. “Please, I’m going to, I’m going to--”

“You’re going to come for me.” Lilia pushes it inside her as deep as it will go. Strikes her thumb-pad against her clit.

Spasming, like she really has been commanded, Mila comes. Her orgasm goes on forever, and ever, and it doesn’t stop being good, even when she’s so sensitive it shouldn’t be. She clenches, unclenches around the toy. Slick pools between her thighs. 

Lilia back-and-forths the toy free, then lifts it to Mila’s lips.

“Um…” Mila takes one last look at herself in the glass. Nope. Still can’t look. Eyes shut tight, she laps the salty-sweet taste of herself off the dildo. With a last sucking kiss, she pulls away, gasping, head sagging.

Twining her fingers almost gently in Mila’s hair, Mila drags her close for a kiss, close-mouthed. Chaste, now, really? “You were greedy, Milochka.”

“I wanted to come,” she whines. Since when does Mila whine. Christ. 

Lazily, Lilia asks, “Since you were so greedy, why don’t you come again?”

Not really up to her, Mila wants to tell her. And Lilia lowers the toy, slippery with Mila’s slick and spit, back to her pussy and works it on and off, up and down just on her folds, not even inside. Mila’s ready to _scream._ She really, really knows it isn’t really up to her, and she’s so good with that. With the force of her pleasure, she jerks free of the silk by accident, and she comes in crazy waves. 

 

“Mila Babicheva!”

Mila skates out onto the rink, waving both hands to the crowd. One idle spin before she skates to her starting position. Hands on hips. The music begins.

Triple Lutz-triple toe combination, perfect. Her jumps have always been a strength. Remarkable height and speed, rarely under-rotated. Neither her triple loop nor her double axel surprise Lilia, either. 

Unquestionably beautiful, incredibly strong, Mila magnetizes the crowd. However, she does not number among the most graceful female skaters Lilia has seen in her years alongside Yakov.

Today, her artistry soars. Lovely connecting elements, emerald-green skirt swirling against cream thighs.

The flying camel spin, Lilia calculates, cinches her a place on the podium, bar ISU meddling. Unlike Yuri, Mila is a judges’ darling. Unless Crispino works miracles on her bad hip, the gold will be hers.

Mila skates to a stop, arm over her head, face glowing, chest heaving behind the jewelled costume. Then she smiles. She knows very well what she has accomplished, says the kiss she blows to the crowd.

At security check, Lilia passed unfazed through a forest of raised eyebrows. She promised Mila they would play after she medaled. And play they will.

When they started this, Lilia did not imagine it lasting for the months it has. She did not picture an _attachment._ But as needy as Mila might seem, Lilia finds herself the one addicted. Pulling pleasure from her partners has always driven her higher than being pleasured herself, even with her vanilla Yasha. 

And Mila, in her eager youth, with her bright heart, has so much to give.

 

Mila feels faintly ridiculous, but looks like it’s working for Lilia, so fine. Her gold medal hangs down between her bare breasts as she sits back on the hotel bed.

“Seeking glory in this sport,” Lilia observes, “is often entwined with seeking pain.” The riding crop in her hand travels tip-first up Mila’s folds, then pulls back and snaps across her thighs. Lilia murmurs, “Today you were almost a ballerina.”

Lilia always takes care not to leave marks in tricky places or make her sore at the wrong times. Lilia always takes care.

“I don’t want to be a ballerina,” Mila tells her, chin lifted. Her inner thighs sting, sweat rolls down between her breasts.

Taking her chin between a finger and a thumb, Lilia studies her.

Mila nuzzles into her hand. “It’s enough for me to be your student.” 

Lilia’s answering inhale through her nose tells her that’s bingo. “Then what shall I teach you today?” She drops the crop and smooths her hands up her sore thighs, making Mila keen into their kiss. 

“You talk about reinventing yourself, right?” Mila shrugs slightly when the kiss breaks. 

“Mm.” Lilia examines her. “What shall I make you into this time?”

“You always make me powerless.” A smile because Mila _loves_ being brought down low under her hand, where she doesn’t have to think about anything looming over her head but Lilia, who does the good kind of looming, anyway. “This time, make me feel powerful.”

Finger tapping thoughtfully at her lip, Lilia indicates her bag full of goodies with a tip of the head.

“Score!” Mila slides off the bed and goes fishing. A- _ha._ Here it is: harness and the thick toy that fits with it. 

Probably, the association of power with the phallic is like, bad. Then again, it’s not like Lilia’s any less commanding with Mila’s face buried in her hot-wet. Mila never expected to enjoy it this much, but she _loves_ how her pussy feels. So when Mila’s lucky, she gets to finger-fuck Lilia and eat her out until her jaw is sore. It’s not a frequent feature of their sex life, though. And she’s never gotten to do this before.

“Let me help you, Milochka.” Lilia takes the harness delicately, and Mila’s face burns at how methodically she helps her step into it-- _ow,_ riding crop welt--and strap it around her hips. Lilia’s fingers trail over her asshole, then up her pussy. And then, hand kind of wet from her, she wraps her hand around her unfeeling cock and pumps. 

Mila’s thighs tremble. Pinned by Lilia’s slate eyes, she doesn’t feel powerful at all. Reaching down, she takes Lilia’s hand off of the toy. “G-go lie on the--on the bed.”

Lilia goes. Lies face-down, arms crossed over the pillow. Legs spread just enough that she can see the slick shine in between and a tuft of her hair. Toned, sinuous, Lilia’s more like a predator luring in her prey than anything.

Indeed, Mila’s lured in close. She runs her hands up her strong thighs, then down her back in slow sweeps. She really likes touching her skin. Doesn’t always get to do it. But. She shakes her head. “I wanna see your face.”

When Lilia levers up on her knees, Mila catches her for a second and lets the toy ride up the crease between her cheeks. Lilia shoots a look over her shoulder; incorrigible, Mila smiles back at her.

On her back now, Lilia lets Mila do as she pleases a little more. Although her breasts aren’t so perky, her nipples are silky when she tongues them. She squeezes her breasts for a moment, fingers dragging into the skin, and Lilia doesn’t make a sound, but she does lick her lips. She’s fingering herself open now, and Mila keeps sneaking glances down. 

“S-spread your legs,” Mila says, so turned-on her clit pushes uncomfortably against the harness, and how many times has Lilia told her the same? It’s not _that_ hard to say.

Lilia spreads her legs, and before Mila can do much, she takes the toy in her hand, lifts her hips, and guides it inside of her. “There. There you go.”

That first thrust is a quick glide. Mila rolls her hips, trying to remember what feels good. One hand drops down to rub around Lilia’s lips and clit, and Lilia grunts in approval, lifting her hips again. Slowly, Mila raises a knee and pushes her hips back down.

“Oh?” Lilia drapes a hand loosely over the back of her neck. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen.

“Oh yeah.” Mila pumps her hips and fucks her for real. One hand braced at her lower back, she fills her fast, fills her deep. Fills the room with the sound of her taking the toy.

Lilia’s breathing goes shallow, and her hand slips down from Mila’s nape. Then, wow, she’s clutching the sheets, moaning behind her teeth as Mila pounds her.

“Lilya, you look so good,” Mila can’t help but pant. As Lilia melts into the mattress, she falls after her. Finding her hands, she grips her wrists to the sheets. “Look at me.” Her bird-like bones seem so narrow under her fingers.

“Where else--” And at last she can’t form a full sentence. “--where else would I look, my Milochka?” Lilia croons to her, and now Mila’s the one who melts.

“You were watching me.” Mila swallows, cants her hips, rubbing the cock inside of her. “You were watching me, so I skated like that.”

“You’ll only skate when I’m watching you?” Lilia’s fingers flex, but it’s not a serious effort to pull free of Mila’s grip. “I’m not your coach.”

“You’re my--” Her what? What, Mila? Her thighs twinge extra over the soreness of her overused muscle. Mila starts thrusting again, bending her head to her neck to kiss her there, and Lilia reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. “My teacher.”

Hips rising with pretty impressive abdominal control, Lilia winds a leg around her, her toes coming to a perfect point against her skin. “Do you feel powerful now, my Milochka?” Her foot pushes against her, guiding her rhythm.

Mila moans. Breathing her perfume in deep, she shakes her head. Lets Lilia set the pace of their fuck, just trying to hold onto her without crying out too loud. “I don’t--I don’t want to.”

 

“Your mother?” Lilia leans forward where she’s seated on the sofa as Mila folds herself around her back.

Mila had been telling someone over the phone about the improvements to her choreography. “Step.”

Stepmother. Lilia questions, then, the identity of the tall woman with Mila’s red hair who often watches her skate. Her aunt, perhaps. She speaks most frequently of her aunt and her father. That she does not know dismays her. 

Lilia boxes up her views for simple dissection. This will require a little dissembling, that is all.

Perhaps it may not be so strange that she does not know. The world she and Mila share is an oblong looping out from the rink. It encompasses Yakov and Yuri, Georgi and Viktor. Other family falls away into irrelevance.

“Did you ever want children?” Mila asks her, chin tucking onto her shoulder.

A question that orbits her mind frequently, not least because people press her about it constantly, a woman past the age where she can bear children but not so old they can see that she has led a fulfilled life without. Over her years, Lilia has fanned into flames so many bright sparks, dancers and skaters, victors and dreamers. 

Reaching behind her shoulder, she folds her fingers around Mila’s. “I never felt the need to bring more troublemakers into the world.”

Mila giggles at her answer, and Lilia almost smiles. Her smile quickly falls at Mila’s _”Ow.”_

“Your tongue?” Lilia tsks. “Don’t expect any sympathy from me.”

At that, Mila sticks out her tongue. The petal of it swells redder with the new silver piercing at the tip.

Yes. Lilia needs no more trouble.

When Lilia cranes forward, Mila locks her arms around her with surprising strength. Although her grasp does not prevent Lilia from retrieving the bowl of ice cream abandoned on the broken-down coffee table or craning back to feed her, she can understand now why Yuri complains about the embrace-attacks. 

_”Aah.”_ Mila wiggles her dextrous little tongue.

Spooning up a small mound of ice cream, ensuring a strawberry piece slips in with it, Lilia upends the cold sweet in her mouth.

 

“You are--” Mila gasps. “--a sadist.” Gripping her knees, she tries her best to hold the split on the carpet of Lilia’s living room. The carpet is itchy. She hates this. Did she even agree to this? She’ll force her past self into the splits, see how _she_ likes it.

“Hm. How did you reach that conclusion?” Lilia strolls over with her cup of coffee, slow Saturday morning not sapping her sophistication at all.

Mila’s eyes flick around at the ceiling. “You know what I mean.” Rolling out of the split, she slumps untidily against the sofa and fishes her phone from the waistband of her leggings. “They’re having a sale on throw pillows.”

“Throw pillows have consumed every piece of furniture in your house,” Lilia says with disdain. “Where will you find the room?”

Not looking up from where she’s zoomed in on a triangular, houndstooth delight, Mila gives Lilia’s very nice sofa a pat. “Their next victim.”

“Is this your thanks for the wine-glasses?” That shopping trip had been _so_ fun. For Mila. Lilia looked pained the whole half hour she spent in the wall hangings section. 

Mila hums happily. “It is. Maybe I have a furniture fetish.” Actually, that gives her this mental image of Lilia tying her up precisely into a foot-rest. Not bad.

“I won’t dismiss the possibility,” Lilia scolds with a sniff. The light lancing through her saltwater tank stripes her stern face in cool color.

Before Lilia can move away, Mila catches the hand not holding her coffee cup. Pulling her wrist down, she kisses her palm. “Or I can find some other way to thank you.” Okay excuse to get into Lilia’s comfortable, perfect bed--a ferret the only feature missing from her perfect room, really.

Lilia turns her hand and hooks her nails in the cashmere of the sweater Mila stole from her in plain sight, and that sounds like a yes to the offer if she’s ever heard any.

Slumped in the sheets, Mila watches Lilia dress. It’s sexier than stripping, watching her put on all those pieces of armor. With the way that woman wears a scarf, it’s totally war-garb. Now she’s moved on to primping. “I love that perfume.” 

“I have worn it since I was your age.” Lilia tips the bottle back and forth, finesse in her fingers, and considers Mila with a glance. Crossing the room to her, she pulls Mila’s wrists out straight. 

Breathless, Mila lets her spritz perfume on her pulse points, then lift her hands to touch her wrists to her throat, behind her ears. She’s blushing so much her body heat already wafts the aroma to her nose. “Mmm, I can see why.”

Lilia leans down and noses behind her ear, and Mila’s kiss is careful of that lipstick that she loves, too.

Her fingers coil around Lilia’s forearm. Hand dragging down, she finds her watch. Like playing dress-up, she flicks open the clasp and slithers it around her own wrist. 

For a moment, the judgement in Lilia’s eyes is too near. Mila starts freaking out. Then, then she pulls the end of the strap through and clips it to Mila’s skin, already scented with her. 

Once again, what Mila has only suggested, Lilia cements. 

 

“Honestly, Zhora, what she needs is not an apology, it’s her ass kicked, and I’m offering my services,” Mila’s chattering to Georgi, gesturing over the table. Her dress casually clings to all her curves, and it seems designed to show off enough of her shoulders to display her blue lace bra straps.

Lilia feels her eyes on her as she stands and presses her hand to Yakov’s shoulder. “Excuse me. I need a smoke break.” In the secluded alcove just outside the restaurant, Lilia lights up and exhales with relief.

Not two minutes later, Mila joins her. She explains, “Bathroom break.”

Pulling the cigarette out from between her lips, she narrows her eyes at her.

“Put it out, Lilya. I have something better.” Mila nips it from her hands and stubs it out under her toe. Combined with the light dress, those patterned canvas shoes make her look so girlish. She claims she hates to kiss her after she has been smoking, but Mila offers her mouth to Lilia anyway.

Lilia wants more than her mouth. And Mila, parting her thighs for her seeking hand, gives her more than her mouth. When she sighs too sharp, Lilia plasters a hand over her mouth. “Shh, Milochka. You’ll have us caught.”

Eyes popping wide under flouncing lashes, Mila moans, muffled. 

“Whatever will I do with you, dressing like this, pretty girl?” Lilia slips her fingertip into panties already humid with desire, then inside her, feeling her firm walls yield. “This is a professional setting.”

Mila laughs, unfettered. Lilia gets the feeling that Mila’s intimidation these days is all acting. As long as the pantomime pleases them both, there’s no reason to mention it. Edging one of the fingers back from her mouth, Mila laps her barbell up the length of it. “I guess you could spank me later.”

So she could.

**Author's Note:**

> don't @ me


End file.
